Whose Land Is It Anyway?

Readings

Exodus 3.13–20 (NRSV)

But Moses said to God, ‘If I come to the Israelites and say to them, “The God of your ancestors has sent me to you”, and they ask me, “What is his name?” what shall I say to them?’

God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM.’ He said further, ‘Thus you shall say to the Israelites, “I AM has sent me to you.”’

God also said to Moses, ‘Thus you shall say to the Israelites, “The LORD, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you”: This is my name for ever, and this my title for all generations.

'Go and assemble the elders of Israel, and say to them, “The LORD, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, has appeared to me, saying: I have given heed to you and to what has been done to you in Egypt.  I declare that I will bring you up out of the misery of Egypt, to the land of the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amorites, the Perizzites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites, a land flowing with milk and honey.”

'They will listen to your voice; and you and the elders of Israel shall go to the king of Egypt and say to him, “The LORD, the God of the Hebrews, has met with us; let us now go a three days’ journey into the wilderness, so that we may sacrifice to the LORD our God.” I know, however, that the king of Egypt will not let you go unless compelled by a mighty hand.  So I will stretch out my hand and strike Egypt with all my wonders that I will perform in it; after that he will let you go.

 

Matthew 11.28–30

‘Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’

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"Whose Land Is It Anyway?”

When Moses stands before the burning bush in the wilderness, he is not an ideal candidate for leadership. He is a fugitive, a stammerer, and a man with more questions than answers. “Who shall I say sent me?” he asks, and God replies with the most curious name of all: “I Am who I Am.” Not a tribal deity, not a divine mascot, not the god of conquest or empire, but simply Being itself—dynamic, ungraspable, uncontainable. Tell them, says the voice from the flames, “I Am has sent you”.

And then comes the promise—the same promise once whispered to Abraham beneath a starry sky, repeated now to Moses: that God will bring the people out of bondage in Egypt and into a land “flowing with milk and honey.” It is an old promise, one bound up with hope and longing, but also—let us be honest—one that has caused centuries of bloodshed.

Because when the land becomes the prize, when divine promise is confused with political entitlement, the name of God is too often taken in vain. The claim to sacred land—made in God’s name—has led generation after generation to war. And today, the world watches in horror as that same strip of earth, sacred to Jew, Christian and Muslim alike, becomes a battleground of suffering and siege. We see in real time the consequences of centuries of theology twisted into nationalism: promises forged into weapons; faith manipulated to justify occupation, retaliation, and erasure.

Now, I am not naïve. I know that the Bible is full of land promises. The Book of Joshua tells of conquests, Ezra and Nehemiah tell of purifying the people of foreign wives and influence, of rebuilding not just the walls of Jerusalem but the walls of identity—rigid, exclusive, sometimes cruel. These texts were written by a people traumatised by exile, desperate to recover a sense of purpose and belonging. But trauma has a way of hardening boundaries. The post-Exilic writers saw holiness as separation; they painted foreigners as threats, and purity as the pathway to peace. Scholars today—at least the honest ones—recognise that these texts are not historical reportage but theological memory. They are attempts to explain survival, not blueprints for divine real estate.

And yet, that memory lives on—in slogans, in settler movements, in policies that demolish homes and expel communities, all in the name of ancient mandate. As Christians, we must not be complicit in that misuse of Scripture. We must not remain silent when our sacred texts are used to sanctify apartheid. If God is truly “I Am”—the One who is Being itself—then God does not belong to any nation or border. God cannot be owned, weaponised, or colonised.

The Hebrew prophets knew this. Jeremiah, writing amid political disaster, refused to preach easy comfort. He called instead for justice, for repentance, for humility. He told the people that the Temple would not save them unless they learned to care for the widow and the orphan. He warned against putting trust in walls, whether of stone or ideology. “Seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you,” he wrote to the exiles in Babylon. In other words: bless the nations, don’t dominate them. Be a light to the world, not a torch of vengeance.

And Jesus, a son of that prophetic tradition, takes it even further. In Matthew’s Gospel, he stands among the weary and the crushed, and says: “Come to me, all you who are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.” Not rest in the sense of laziness or retreat, but shalom—wholeness, harmony, peace. He doesn’t speak of conquest or inheritance. He doesn’t promise land or power. He promises a way: “Take my yoke upon you… for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Now there’s a strange thing. The yoke, in rabbinic tradition, was often used to describe the law—the whole weight of religious obligation. Jesus, it seems, is offering a different law. Not one etched in stone, but one etched in mercy. Not a code of exclusions, but a Gospel that stretches outward. And when, after resurrection, he gathers his ragtag followers and sends them into all the world, he does not tell them to claim the earth, but to bless it—to teach, to baptise, to serve.

We must be honest, friends. There is no such thing as divinely mandated land ownership. Not anymore. Perhaps not ever. What we are given is not dominion, but responsibility. The earth is the Lord’s—not ours. And the people who dwell in the land—Israeli and Palestinian, Jew and Muslim and Christian alike—are not pawns in a scriptural drama, but beloved children of God, aching for peace.

So we must ask ourselves, what is our role now? What does it mean to be people of promise? It means we stand not with those who claim divine backing for missiles or checkpoints, but with those who mourn. It means we amplify the voices of peace—Jewish, Muslim, Christian—who call for justice, not vengeance. It means we reject any theology that turns God into a landlord and turns our faith into a deed of ownership.

Moses stood before the burning bush and learned that God is not contained in one place or name. Jesus stood before a weary crowd and offered not territory, but rest. Let us, then, be people who carry that message—into our politics, our pulpits, and our prayers. The world does not need more crusades. It needs more courage. It needs more shalom.

Amen.